Mycroft's Hunger Problem
by xxAwEs0meLIFE13xx
Summary: Despite his best efforts, Mycroft Holmes is reaped as the male tribute from his district along with Molly Hooper. Being a man of words rather than one of muscle he has little chance in the games. Will alliances hold strong under pressure or crumble under it? Featuring the fabulous Irene Adler, John Watson and Jim Moriarty. (Character death and adult theme's in later chapters)
1. I've been reaped?

**This is written in Mycroft Holmes' POV because I've not seen a Sherlock-Hunger Games crossover yet with him in... so yeah. Any ideas for later chapters are welcome. Hope you enjoy ^v^ **

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I'd lived my life carefully, skillfully with the precision of a chess master trying to preserve a certain piece. I'd avoided tessera- even if it meant lean meals in winter and what did I get in return? A one-way ticket to the capital and a 23 in 24 chance of returning home in a body bag. But the name choosen was mine. Mine alone.

This year, my luck had deserted me. As I stepped onto the podium, I was painfully aware of all the precautions I took to avoid being reaped falling into redunancy. The crowd below me was silent. I let my face become one of indifference; knowing no amount of emotion would change my fate. The camera's were trained on me and my family. My brother, Sherlock, stared stonily up at me. He ignored the camera lens that was almost pressed against his cheekbones, as he watched me mount the stairs. A gleeful capital woman awaited me. The badly applied makeup, garish assortment of accessories and frilly dress nausiated me beyond anything I had ever experienced. My parents also maintained satisfactory composure until the forced applause faded away.

"There we are dear." Trilled the capital woman as she positioned me uncomfortably close to the female tribute, Molly Hooper. " The tributes of district 12."

Again, there was a pitiful amount of applause. Only those who'd grown too old for The Games, with no children of their own to worry about, clapped. The captial woman pursed her lips until they disappeared into her rose tinted skin. A masked Peacekeeper lead us away. But I had only eyes for my family as I entered the Justice Building. The infamous chains of the Hunger Games enveloped me as the doors slammed shut.

The snivelling slip of a girl, Molly Hooper, walked ahead. Her ponytail swung back and forth like a pendilum but I couldn't distinguish whether it was auburn or brown. The capital woman strutted alongside me. She was trying her hardest to catch my eye and seduce me into small talk, but I ignored every attempt at conversation. Her unnecessarily high heels clicked irritatingly in the silence until we reached a door. The door swung open and Molly was ushered inside. I was paraded further down the corridor to an identical door, then pushed inside.

It was eleven minutes later when there was a sharp rap on the door. I had just gotten to my feet when my mother flung herself at me. Baring in mind the circumstances, I tried to 'hug' her back. The physical contact was nothing short of repulsive but I complimented myself: as the duration had been neither impolite or rude. The tears in her eyes were the same when the third Holmes brother had been reaped... full of despair and indescribable terror. When she withdrew I could see Sherlock and my father stood in the door frame. The latter approached,

" Mycroft. I don't need to tell you to be brave. Just find water. Think survival and don't form enemies too quickly. Especially before going into the arena because then they'll single you out-"

"Yes father." I nodded stiffly as to save him the pain of rambling on. We shook hands. His hands held firm within mine, and the absence of tremblings told me he'd put up a resistance to the emotional trauma. Good. It wouldn't end well for dear Sherlock if both our parents succumbed to mindless terror.

Father and mother gave watery smiles as I turned expectantly to Sherlock. He was leaning against the white washed wall with a look of both thoughfulness and annoyance.

" Brother mine. Have you nothing to say?" I asked. Sherlock hitched his collar up ridiculously high and rounded on me. His eyes were the most startling shade of green as they were heavy with unshed tears. Not tears of sadness, no. Tears of frustration perhaps. Other people may have mistaken this as a display of brotherly affection but I knew better.

He'd wanted to volunteer. Nothing in district 12 could satisfy his desire for death and mystery, not even the annual airing of The Hunger Games. Alas, he was but one year too young for The Games.

" Mycroft, you're the smart one- you always have been. Although you're not skilled with any weapon besides your own tongue you have a chance. The tributes are likely to be bludgering fools incapeable of any clever thought; you'll have the high ground."

" And yet, this is a fight to the death. Does no-one realise what problems this will bring? I've got to _kill_ people, I've got to defend myself and survive in the arena. Fortunately the latter is no trouble for me, but the former will be problematic in the very least."

" Mycroft-"

" Look quickly, if you've got anything important to tell me. Say it now. Peacekeepers are coming."

Sure enough, the marching footsteps were growing louder and louder. Sherlock ruffled his hair and whispered urgently into my ear,

" You're allowed a token- something to remind you of home whilst your fighting. An item to motivate you to kill for the sole reason of bring _honour_ to your district. I tried to bring your umbrella but the Peacekeeper's wouldn't let me. So I brought you this instead."

Reaching into the depths of his long black coat he produced a scarf. It was soft to the touch and of the darkest, midnight blue that it might be mistaken as black. I'd seen this around Sherlock's neck more times than I cared to remember, whether he was playing pirate or detective. I shook my head,

" They'll never let me keep this. It'll be advantageous if the arena is a frozen wasteland but if they confiscate it... you'll not get it back."

" That's a risk I'm willing to take Mycroft."

The Peacekeeper's had arrived. He quickly shoved the scarf into my hands as the uniformed men dragged him away. I stowed it deep into my pocket and watched the receeding mop of curly hair amidst the helmets. My family was gone. I was alone.


	2. Meeting the mentor

**Hey, here's chapter 2 of the SherGames! (Or HungerLock). Ha ha. Anyway, I hope to start introducing familiar Sherlock and HG character's soon so stay tuned for new updates. **

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It was not long after when I was escorted away. I felt the reassuring weight of the scarf in my pocket and forced myself into step with the marching Peacekeepers. We arrived at the train station. The undulating mass of capital reporters and worried citizens shouted out when I approached. Last minute advice and irritatingly personal questions mingled together into a wave of sound.

I was hurried aboard the train and the doors slid shut, drowning out everything and everyone.

The capital had spared no expense. Everything from floor to ceiling glistened like a thousand blinking eyes and the windows and sealed doors were surprisingly sound-proof. Wild-eyed people clawed at the windows despite the Peacekeeper's futile attempts to control them. I wondered where my family were. Hopefully not amongst these deliquents. Perhaps they were at home watching the live feed from the station. Could they see me now? What could they be thinking; that I'd be amongst the first to die or that I was a contender for the crown?

The future was too painful to dwell on at present so I turned away from the window.

But as I did, I was confronted with a montage of paintings. A mutilated face. The golden plated cornucopia. A child impaled by a long spear. Death was everywhere. It took few moments to steady my nerves. Designer Peeta Mellark had obviously redesigned this train. His trademark paintings of The Hunger Games were well known even in the districts.

He'd been in The Games himself. Twice.

I had admired him from a very young age. He would have been my role model if I weren't heinously opposed to making people into heroes...

" Gaah!"

I span around. The noise was akin to that of a strangled cat. It was Molly Hooper. She must have climbed onto the train, unobserved whilst I was disorientated by the crowd. She was staring at the wall. The young child depicted in the painting was dark of skin, petite and young- maybe 12 years of age. The long spear that had impaled her had drawn out a pool of blood. As I watched the pool seemed to grow and grow, until her entire body was drained of life. Molly seemed to experiencing something similar, except responding emotionally rather than rationally.

In my head I recitied;

_Caring is not an advantage. Just a means to end. All hearts are broken. All lives end. Some more peacefully than others. _

_Mine and Molly's probably being of the latter._

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Sensing another presence nearby, I set my head on a swivel. I searched around the cabin; there was nobody behind the plush sofas or hiding behind the curtains. I quickly identified the potential hiding places and then systematically dismissed them. Molly was watching me questioningly. I couldn't pinpoint what exactly alerted me to another human being but I had faith in it. Surely, I couldn't be mistaken...

As if on cue...from the shadows, emerged a male figure.

His hands bore the signs of an artist; there were charcoal stains on each finger tip and smudges of it on his face, presumably when the unassuming man had rubbed at his eyes with fatique. it was no big deduction to say that he was infamous Peeta Mellark.

His mouth opened a fraction. A single syllable slipped from his lips; a soft whispered name, " Rue."

I motioned towards the painting Molly and myself were just observing, he nodded. The name sounded familiar. Rue had been the female tribute from district 11 a few years back. She'd died horrifically as was usual in the Games.

" She was so young," said Peeta, " Too young to be plucked from the Earth." He stepped from the shadows, swaying on the balls of his bare feet as if he were drunk,

"You're the new tributes."

"Yes." I replied.

As the simple realisation dawned in his eyes, I saw his body shake. Molly rushed to his side. Just in time, it seemed as Peeta's legs collapsed beneath him.

"No, no, no. Not again. Please not again. I can't mentor you. I can't mentor anyone! You'll die, just like the others. I can't!" He started to twist and writhe, knocking a vase from a table. It shattered. Blood ran freely down the right side of his face, where the shards had cut into him.

" Help me! We need to move him. Please!" Molly stared imploringly at me then down worriedly at our mentally unstable mentor. Wrapping her arms beneath his arms, she attempted to drag him into the next carriage. I stood still for a moment. The physical implications of aiding her were unsettling but so was the blood staining the tiled floor.

" Come on, help me! Don't just stand there!"

I decided to help her. And Peeta. Clamping his flailing legs together with one hand, I hooked my arm beneath them and lifted them from the floor. Molly smiled gratefully but I avoided her eyes. We settled Peeta onto a couch, plucked the shards of glass from his temple and I resisted the urge to vomit. His flesh and blood was warm.

* * *

Eventually, we grew tired of his incessant ramblings and Molly found a syringe.

"You were extremely precise with the dosage Molly. Where did you learn that? I hardly remember any medical course available at school."

" Oh that." Molly blushed as if ashamed of her healing niche, " I learnt it from my mother. She was a healer."

The use of the past tense took me slightly aback, I knew starvation was common within district 12 but the victims were always meaningless to me; therefore faceless. Molly lifted her chin high, fighting back tears.

" There's no point in crying I know but I'm scared. Scared for myself. Mother said that no-one ever wins the games, there are just scarred survivors. Those poor kids who survive become 'babes' of the capital. They either get spoiled or go insane."

I looked pointedly at the drugged form of Peeta Mellark asleep on the couch. Molly continued, brushing the hair from her eyes,

" I don't want to die. And I don't want to end up like him. I'm guessing that underneath, deep, deep down that all the mentors have been affected by the Games. I- I don't know what I'll do in the arena... Die, kill, survive? All three sound as impossible as the other..."


	3. Tributes on TV

**Hiya fellow HungrySherlockians! This is the third chapter and I guess I owe you guys a bit more information about Peeta Mellark. Peeta was reaped in a past Hunger Games, he met Rue (like Katniss did) and eventually won. Either Katniss has been eradicted entirely from this story or something happened so that she and Peeta never met- therefore there was no 'love act' to save them both. Hope that made sense ^o^ **

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The train smoothly began its journey to the capital.

Molly and myself explored the numerous train carriages. Each one had a theme, the head of the train being The Reaping Day all the way through to the Victory Tour in the last carriage. The paintings ranged from morbid to down right lifelike and shocking. Our mentor/interior designer was definately depressesed, repressed and obessesed. Not good for someone who was supposed to train us in the arts of survival.

After our adventure, we sat and watched the footage of The Reapings in other districts. The district one tributes were obviously revelling in the attention. Their grins were manic. Molly commented that their blood lust must be the equvilant to that of a vampire. This amused me. Slightly.

I took a mental note of the tributes I deemed dangerous;

District 1_- Jim Moriarty._

District 2 -_Charles Magnusson._

District 4- _Irene Adler._

I arranged my hands into a steeple and leant forwards. The woman, Irene, was mesmerising. Thanks to the crystal clear HD screen I could observe her as if I were there. Everything about her posture was measured, even as she emerged from crowd. I was in the presence of a mindful individual. And a potentially dangerous enemy... Before I knew it I had my face pressed against the screen, I heard my mother's voice, _You'll get square eyes Mycroft Holmes if you're not careful! _

I knew enough of the female anatomy to know a perfect speciman when I saw one. She had no visual impefections of any kind. Her skin was flawless, to the degree of looking unnatural. Yet despite her ill-fitting clothes she was the image of perfection. I was strangely looking forward to meeting her.

"Uh-huh."

Molly coughed pointedly, a smug expression on her face. Her eyebrows had all but disappeared into her hairline. It was quite a feat of facial contortions considering her fringe was drawn back over her head.

" Oh! You're human after all! I never would have guessed that _the_ Mycroft Holmes was capable of having a crush on somebody." I turned to face her, feeling sickened by her reference to 'crushes'.

" Let me ask you a question; who are you to judge whether I'm attracted to somebody or not?" Molly returned my cold gaze unflinchingly. I inclined my head slightly and conceeded,

"In truth, I am interested by Irene. She's unlike anyone I've ever seen. Nevertheless you seem to regard interest as a display of emotions; of love or passion. Your mindset is so restrictive that you cannot perceive the differences between love interests and pure, childlike curiousity. It's almost saddening."

Molly's eyebrows had remained annoyingly perky throughout my declination of feelings for Irene so I continued,

" The very fact that you refuse to accept my answer and are forcibily manipulating my words into ones that will fit your view of me shows you to be weak-minded. You're doing it now. I can see it."

" You know that, before the Reaping, you were already quite the little superstar."

Molly's words were earnest but extremely far-fetched. If I were to give a verbal response to my supposed celebrity status; it would have been a snort of derision.

"What do you mean?" I asked for clarification.

" You. Your whole family. You're different because you see things others can't. It's like you have this power-"

" Wait. The only power I have are acute powers of observation and deduction."

"Whatever," Molly waved her hand dismissively, " And the way that you're always on the scene of a crime before anyone else is. You and that creepy brother of yours. Sherlock isn't it?"

"Yes."

With further ado, I swept up the remote and switched the TV off. Irene's face was swallowed up by the inky blackness. We sat in a silence some people may have found awkward for some time. I took advance of the peace to formulate plans. What I'd do in the arena as the countdown finished; flee or fight. How I'd survive; entrust my safety to allies or go it alone...

At some point, Molly returned to Peeta Mellark's side to "check if he was alright," although the sleeping drugs wouldn't wear off for another five minutes. I let my hand slip into my pocket, drawing out Sherlock's last gift to me; his beloved scarf. The fabric was warm and comforting to touch. I fully unravelled it. After much deliberation I wrapped it around my neck. Although it was loose, it almost suffocated me. I could smell the lingering tobacco smoke of my fathers' pipe. The saltiness of our well-preserved meats for dinner. The last of the candle wax before the flame was extinguished. In short, the very essence of home...

Suddenly, my eyes began to itch. I stood up sharply, looking for the smoke from the fire that was causing my eyes to water. There was no fire. I caught sight of my reflection in a golden plated mirror; liquid was running swiftly down my face in streams.

" Those are called tears, my friend." Said Peeta Mellark. He was leaning woozily against the door frame despite the sleeping drugs still being in effect. Molly was supporting him from behind.

"You'd better yet used to them Mycroft. You'll shed more before these Games are over."

Somehow I doubted that the other tributes would be experiencing similar emotional breakdowns to mine. So I resolved to keep the leakage to a minimum: it wouldn't do for me to arrive at The Capital with puffy eyes.

Molly ducked beneath Peeta's outstretched arm and walked towards the window. The landscape of district 12 had gone. It was now replaced with a view of a large farming industry, around it's perimeter were large electrified fences topped with barbed wire. The utopia of green was enclosed within the modern steel walls of the capital.

" Welcome... to district 11."


	4. Avoxes

**'Sup people. Hey, I decided that our cast of character's was missing one crucial person so I added him in. Please tell me your thoughts in a review below. By the way, if you're reading this thank you for sticking with me. ^¥^**

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Although the capital train was faster than anything we had back into district 12, by the time we reached district 9 it was nightfall.

The reason being was that we had stopped at district 10 for some 'supplies'. After strange crates were brought aboard by a troop of silent workers, Peeta disappeared into his cabin. He wouldn't tell us what exactly had been brought in but he did tell us that the workers were called avoxes. When Molly asked why they didn't speak, Peeta said it was because their tounges had been amputated by capital surgeons. I pictured a spotless lab. A large straight backed chair with clamps and other neferious restrictive equipment around it. I explained my theories to Molly as Peeta showed us a canvas he was still working on. Apparently my thoughts had not been too misdirected.

The canvas portrayed a dimly lit room. There was a patient was lying stark naked on the leather chair whilst a white coat surgeon (standing above the victim) prepared to wield his vicious looking mini-pitchfork. Beside him was a tray of devilish equipment. Hanging from the ceiling was a circular device, a wire protuded from its centre which was connected to the chair. I suspected this to be capable of producing an immobilising charge. Molly started to deduce how the process could work,

" I'd say the patient had to first be immobilised. They'd have to be. Otherwise the cut wouldn't be clean and there's a greater risk of injuring something important; the eyes for example. The pitchfork could be used as a stabiliser. The tounge would probably be pierced around halfway then, I'd imagine the cut to be made slightly above it. And to actually amputate the toungue they'd use... the drill. It'd be vibrating thus painful; slow enough to be torture but quick enough to be efficient at the same time..."

Peeta was staring wide-eyed at Molly, so much so that she mumbled to a halt.

" You'd do well in the capital. Molly Hooper, the girl who had a taste for torture." The colour drained from Molly's cheeks,

"I-I didn't mean to- I was just h-h-hypothesising about how it'd be done... That's all."

" Well sweatheart, if you keep this up you'll have no problem reverting back into a mindless, selfish animal when you're in the arena. In fact, I won't have to teach you anything! You'll probably have killed or tortured someone else before we even arrive in the capital!"

"I'm sorry!" Molly fled. Covering her face with her hands she skittered off down the corridor to her quarters. I stood still. Peeta folded a cloth over the canvas and stowed it back into his cabin. I took this as my leave. Molly's appointed chambers were opposite my own. Too close for comfort because I could still hear her muffled crying.

My chambers were extremely luxurious, too much so for my taste. The bed was big enough to hold a three fully grown men and all the furniture was matching. The wallpaper wasn't saturated with the coal dust that was forever present in district 12 either. Everything was too clean.

I dragged the sheets from the bed and moved them out into the corridor. It was the only place where the luxury of the capital wasn't glaringly obvious. Molly also had created a nest of bed sheets, she was soundly asleep.

Settling into my own makeshift bed, I soon found respite within the clutches of sleep.

* * *

Rustling. Muffled footsteps. I struggled to prise open my eyes. Standing above Molly was a mousey-haired boy. He was tugging at the sheets underneath her, trying to drag her sleeping form away. His back was to me; he was unaware that I was awake. Noiselessly, I crouched, my knees compressed and I pounced on him.

The boy gasped as I leapt onto his back; flinging my arms around his neck for balance. He staggered forward under my momentum; not good at all.

" Wake up Molly!" I shouted, " Move!" Her eyes flicked open and she darted to the other side of her nest, just as the boy toppled over. Molly began to scream, as the boy struggled within my grasp. He struck out with fists and yet no sound except his frenzied breath escaped his lips.

" What were you doing? Why did you try to take Molly away?" I roughly grabbed his flailing limbs and pinned him down. My foot was pressing down hard between his shoulder blades, yet he did not utter a sound.

"Tell me now!"

" Stop it Mycroft! Don't you see? He can't answer!" Molly scrambled over. She tugged me away from her would-have-been abductor.

"What? Why not?"

" He's one of them. An avox." The boy nodded quickly.

"An avox? Of course..." Internally, I was livid that I'd missed that crucial detail but I was composed myself quickly,

"Apologies"

"Let him up Mycroft, this instant!" I removed my foot and stood back. The boy rolled stiffly onto one side and slowly began to get back on his feet. He eyed me reproachfully before sticking his hand into his pocket and drawing out a slip of paper. Molly smiled weakly as I took the note; this is what it read...

_Attention tributes Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper, this avox is charged with seeing that all basic capital proceedures regarding tributes are obeyed. Please allow him to attend to your every need. We look forward to meeting you in the capital ^u^_

Handwritten. Light creases on the right-side, indicted that the writer was right-handed. A woman's handwriting.

" So, you were trying to move Molly back into her quarters?" I asked.

The boy inclined his head towards the note and pointed out the first sentence again, '...is charged with seeing that all basic capital proceedures regarding tributes are obeyed.'

I eyed our new 'servant' from foot to head. He was clad in cheap garments; coarse, rough and irritating. The blantantly obvious reason for his red, rashed skin. I discovered a long strand of blond hair pressed within the folds of his shirt. It couldn't be Molly's hair because her's is not light blond by any stretch of the imagination. So perhaps a girlfriend judging from the fact that it couldn't have got there without prolonged physical contact.

" Hey. I'm not sure how you'll be able to answer this but... what's your name?" Molly asked shyly.

The boy motioned writing in the air; pinching his forefinger and thumb together as if holding a pen. Molly snatched the note from me and thrust a pen into his hands. Concentration hardened his features as he wrote.

_mY Name is JoHn WaTSon_


	5. The first breakfast

**Choo-Choo! All aboard the Hunger Games express! No? That's a shame... Because we're nearing the capital, keep reading loyal HungryLockian's!**

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The three of us sat in the corridor, Molly was conversing with John Watson whilst he answered back through scribbled notes.

"What district are you from?"

_dIstrICT 2_

"Why did you become an avox?"

i Had nO cHoiCE, I wAs usELess iN comBat. wE nEedED tO prOvide a SerVice tO the CApital, I wAs a DiSgRACe.

"Will you get into trouble for telling me this?"

I Don'T kNow, pRObabLy.

"Why does your writing have so many mistakes?"

ThEre wAs nOt A Lot Of fOCUs on LeaRning, mOre oN fIghTing.

"Did you have a family back in 2?"

yEs

"Do you miss them?"

mY faTher aGreed tO sEnd mE awAy to bE an AvOx. I hAte hIM. My mOther I miSs.

"Do you have any siblings?"

yEs, bUt I neVer meT tHEm. My moTher wAs prEgnAnt wHen I lEft.

"Boy or girl?"

i Don't kNOw

" Have you told anyone else about this?"

i'Ve nEvEr haD tHE chAnce tOo

And so on and so on, our conversations, if you can call them that continued. John's compendium of knowledge was wider than I anticipated. We learnt more about John Watson's past, of the cultural difference between the districts and of the civil unrest. At the moment, all the rebels 'accomplishements' were superficial. I sighed resignatedly and turned my attention to the districts as we passed by. Rebelling against the capital was not a new occurance but in 12 the greatest difficulty was starvation not Capital repression.

I withdrew further from the conversation as it turned to personal matters; but I did learn that John was a gifted medic alike Molly. He used to help the other students recover after gruelling training sessions. Molly simpered over him. But to my surpise, he eventually softened to her.

At some point a tray of food materalised before us, brought by a skeletal Avox. We ate the rich food with relish; never had our tongues tasted anything another than dry bread and the puny captial rations. John refused to eat, insisting that we should increase our strength before the Games. Molly and me eagerly followed his instructions, and soon the tray was empty. I felt a strange heaviness and lethargy come over me. John refered to it as being 'full'.

" I believe my innards are going to explode." Groaned Molly as she doubled over in pain.

" We are more likely to be experiencing the effects of our malnourishment." I replied, "I highly doubt that our stomach's will explode though but I'd get to the bathroom as quick as-"

A sour taste filled my mouth. My sentence was cut short by the torrent of half-digested food that spewed up through my throat. Molly's face turned from ashen grey to a sickly green as she too began to retch and heave. John rushed away; leaving a hastily scribbled note to explain his speedily exit,

_I wIll GEt PeeTa_

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**_Sorry for the real short chapter but I felt bad for not updating. I'd really appreciate some ideas on how to continue this, PM me or leave a review. Thank you!_**


	6. Acting and reacting

**Just going to speed things up a tad with the capital interviews, if you're interested in JohnLock read till the end. ^u^! It's craaaazy!**

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The lights illuminated the stage ahead. The purple haired Capital host stood expectantly centre stage awaiting my appearence. I knew the cameras would be trained on me from start to finish and back home in 12, my family would be glued to the TV. Presumably they would be watching the mantatory viewing at home rather than in the square; as to avoid the suffacating empathy from other citizens. I imagined Sherlock curled up, pointedly avoiding to look at my empty space on the sofa. He'd never confess his unease to anyone. Even if I died.

_Remember: make them love you. Not in a creepy way unless it helps you survive. Trying to survive in the arena can be made easier by the sort of impression you make on these potential sponsers. Try to win them over any way you can._

Our mentor, Peeta Mellark's last words came to mind as I inhaled deeply and stepped into the limelight. The amplified voice of Caesar Flickerman blared throughout the massive stage.

" Here he is! Look at this fine specimen, so strong and imposing! Yes, yes sit down Mycroft. That's it!" I sat down on the edge of my seat, trying hard to avoid sinking into the velvet lining.

" So Mycroft Holmes tell me how are you liking the capital?" I forced a wry smile,

" To be honest, I haven't been able to sight-see at all because of the squadron of Peacekeepers that keep stalking me and Molly."

" Hahahahaha! So how are you and the little lady? Are you fairing well with the change of scenery?"

" Well I can't speak for Molly, but I'd say I'm fairing well. I love the food here and I've put on at least seven pounds upon my arrival. Oh and of course there is an absence of coal dust in the air- my lungs are loving the cleanliness of the Capital." An uproar of applause.

" But Mycroft seriously, what're you going to do in the arena? Go sight-seeing?"

" You want me to tell you my skills? If I tell before we get into the arena wouldn't that spoil the surprise? Am I right folks?" I internally winced as I forced myself to interact with the simpering Capital audience. Another uproar.

" Alright folks! I'll just ask one last question before Mycroft's time is up..." The crowd suddenly hushed and I felt a stab of self-conciousness.

" Last question then... if you could say one thing to your family back home now, what'd it be?" An audible burst of 'Oooh's' rumbled towards me as I frantically thought of a reply.

If I were to die in the most humiliating way possible, I might as well say something uncharacteristic. Something new. Something I'd never done before-in real life or on national TV. I took a moment and confessed,

" Vatican cameos! Brother mine, listen very closely to what I have to say. Stay off the drugs. If I come back to a dead corpse and a funeral because of an overdose my heart would break. You see what I'm saying? Your loss would break not only my heart but mom's and dad's heart too."

Caesar leant across and laid a reassuring arm on my shoulder. I interupted him before any words of falsehood could fall from his poofy lips, "W-wait, one last thing! Sherlock, if I die, you can have my umbrella. An eye for an eye, right?"

" W-wait I don't understand. An eye for an eye?" Caeser looked genuinely confused so I explained myself with all the courtesy I could muster.

" My brother gave me his favourite scarf as a token. And at a guess, I'd say he'd be loathe to accept it when it's soaked in my blood."

Silence. I wonder whether I'd lost sponsers due my uncharacteristic pessimism but it was too late now.

I could almost see Sherlock's eyes boring holes into mine through the TV screen; saying, " Impressive show, brother mine. But if you die, I'll spend the rest of my life high anyway."

The timer chimed.

I was quickly herded off stage but before I was completely out of view Molly stepped from the shadows. Her side ponytail was long and sleek, in fact her whole body seemed to glisten unnaturally. We caught each others eyes before the peacekeeper renewed their attempts at seperating us. We lost sight of one another.

As I proceeded down the lavish Capital corridors I thought back to my disappointing score. 1. That put my odds of survival at rock bottom. For some reason Molly had scraped up a 7. She refused to disclose what skill she'd shown but it must have been quite spectacular. Considering her medical expertise I deduced it to be something to do with poison. This was due to the livid spots on her arms that she tried conceal.

I approached my chamber door, grasped the handle and pushed it open.

Rustling. Sniffing. I stepped into the room and John Watson turned to face me. His eyes rolled back into his head like a thing possessed. He was rubbing something against his cheek, it was navy blue and rectangular in shape. Sherlock's scarf!

"What the hell are you doing with that scarf?" I shouted, snatching at the tasseled end with both hands and provoking a game of tug-of-war. John pushed a piece of paper into my hand that read;

_iT sMElls GorGEous! Is tHis yOur gIrlFRiend's sCARf?_

"Get off you creep! That's mine!" I pressed my foot against his chest, his chest heaved iratically underfoot. I used it as leverage to prise him away from my token. He fell onto the floor, writhing like a worm.

His manic laughter rung in my ears as I lifted the scarf to my own nose. The aroma of coal dust dissolved swiftly, replaced by the unmistakeable smell of... of...

" Sher- Sherlock what have you done?"

Blackness.


	7. One false step

**Here you go! The lastest installment of Sherlock and the Hunger Games where it really starts to live up to the summary.**

* * *

Peeta Mellark

Hearing a dull thump I leapt to my feet.

Of course it could have just been Mycroft collapsing into a chair due to 'social interaction fatigue' as he called it. In fact I wouldn't be the least surprise if he'd fallen into a coma after that interview. He'd done much better than expected with the sponsers. Good for him. However, all the time in the arena had left me on a coiled spring. Creeping cautiously toward Mycroft's room I heard a series of loud screams, I wrenched open the door. Nothing could have prepared me for the scene before me.

Mycroft was convulsing wildly on the floor clutching a scrap of navy blue cloth. Beside him was an avox, his arm was shaking vigorously around his crotch whilst he and Mycroft wrestled for possesion of the scarf.

" What the hell happened here?" I knelt by Mycroft's side. The teen was screaming nonsensically- cradling his thrashing head on his lap, I tried to shout for help but my throat seized up. Mycroft won possesion of the scarf and rolled out of John's reach. John rattled the bed stand then squeezed his hands against his head.

" What should I do? Something's wrong with that scarf." I glanced back at the door. Would Molly's interview be finished by now? Could she help?

" Molly? Molly Hooper! If you're there come quick! Anyone, help!" I steadied myself and deliberated momentarily before setting off down the corridor. My feet pounded down the carpet, sliding round tiled corners until I reached a communicator into which I screamed for a medic.

When I was wholly satisfied that an entire squadron of medics were en route, I returned to the bedroom.

The avox crooned gently to himself in the corner, oblivious to my presence. As I approached Mycroft I realised that something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. His face was pale and unmoving. His chest was still, there was no rise or fall to indicate life within him. I leant over his chest and gripped his wrist to search for a pulse. His skin paled considerably under the pressure but to no avail.

" Oh no. N-n-n-no! Mycroft come on, you can't possibly be dead."

I heard swift footsteps; running. The medics at last!

* * *

Mycroft Holmes

_10 seconds. _"Quickly, we'll have to prop him up in the tube."

9, " Come on! He can't fall over at the top if he has any aspirations of staying in one piece!"

8,

7,

6, " Right. Come on Mycroft snap out of it!"

5,

4, " Hurry up lad or you'll be the first to die! Fight it!"

3,

2, " I hope this is part of a plan..."

1. " Good luck!"

Swoosh!

All noises around me ceased to exist; as if suddenly snuffed from existance like candles. My body ascended. My mind fought sluggishly to return to my body. But the elevator to Heaven would not slow down. I was pretty sure that the disembodied voice was that of an agitated Peeta Mellark. A fierce wind swept my hair right back as if it were gelled back. I prised open my eyes. My head thumped uncomfortably as I took in the view. There was a blurred shell like shape directly in front of me. A deep voice spoke out from the peak of the cornucopeia; a countdown.

50... Huh?

45... Where am I?

40... What the hell? How can I be in the arena?

35... Wait a moment...

30... Sherlock's scarf!

25... That's what drugged me!

20... Brother mine, what were you thinking?

15... How am I supposed to...

10... Wait- I can't do this!

5...4...3...2...1!

A great surge of adrenaline coursed through me veins. I stuttered. Forward? Backward? Every other tribute had decided whether to flee or fight it out for a meagre supply pack or weapon. I stood frozen. Irene Adler reached the cornucopia first. She snuck a quick glance over her shoulder only to see the hoard of desperate tributes close behind. Running deeper into the mouth of the shell, she tripped. Her back was exposed and more than one tribute jumped to take advantage of it. Swiftly she flipped around, flourished a double pronged spear and drove it deep into the stomach of one such tribute. Blood splattered over her.

" Move!"

I flipped around. A girl was running headlong at me with a long sabre. I quickly brought up a mental itinerary of my potential weapons; fists, head, legs, stone or scarf. The drugs in my scarf could be extremely advantageous! As she neared I tried to shake the scarf loose from around my neck. I couldn't. It was too tight.

The girl got closer. I tried again to loosen it. My palms began to sweat as she jabbed the sabre toward me. I pulled desperately at the scarf. It budged! I yanked harder and it fell into my hands. Suddenly, I felt empowered and protected. The girl had reached me. I spun around and wrapped the scarf over her nose and mouth. My momentum dragged us both to the floor but I tightened my grip. Terror flashed in her eyes, she writhed within my grasp as I forced her to inhale the drugged token.

Her body convulsed then was still. When I was sure that she was truly in a drugged sleep I removed the scarf. A vivid red line ran over the bridge of her nose and cheeks and her eyes were glazed over. It wasn't until then that I realised my big mistake.

She hadn't been running to kill me. The voice that shouted "Move!" had been her's. She'd run into the centre with the other tributes, grabbed a weapon and upon seeing my unfortunate incapacitiation, decided to do something brave. Something no other tribute would. Try to save a life.

I looked up in horror at the scene of carnage. Blood. Bodies. Barbarians. It was nothing compared with the onslaught of guilt that hit me.

The girl in my arms... was Molly Hooper.

* * *

**What do you think should happen next?**

**Please leave me a review below, it's really helpful whether you leave a compliment or some feedback. Thank you ;)**


	8. Run Mycroft Run!

**Hey! Mycroft has made a mistake, can he rectify it before its too late? Now the REAL fun can start!**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes

What have I done?

I ripped the scarf from her mouth and shoved it deep into my trouser pocket. Whilst cursing under my breath at my stupidity I tugged Molly's limp form closer and wrapped my arms around her. Cradling her like a child in my arms, I sprinted towards the forest. There, in the dark and relative safety of the woods, Molly could recover from the drug. I ran. My feet pounded through the brambles and disembodied limbs of trees with a speed I've never experienced before. The adrenaline must be the source, or perhaps it was guilt. Screams echoed behind me, I quickened my escape.

The tree line began to thicken but I didn't stop or hesitate. Molly lay like a rag doll in my arms; unmoving and for all intents and purposes lifeless. BOOOOOOM!

I skidded to a halt, unsure of which way to turn. Where was the sound coming from? What did it mean?

BOOOOOOM! Again, the canon-like sound made my heart skip a beat. Of course... The canon fire in recognition of the dead tributes. 1...2...(Boom!)...3...(Boom! Boom!)...4...5...(BoomBoomBoomBoomBoom!)...10? The last of the explosion merged into one chaotic jumble of sounds. I staggered a little further until I found that my legs were no longer co-operative. Sinking to the ground I propped Molly up against a tree trunk and tried to catch my breath.

For some reason I couldn't recognise a single plant in that forest. I looked up at the trees and their leaves, searching through my mind palace for anything similar back in District 12. Nothing. Everything was new to me, and I hoped, new to the other competitors.

Molly's head flopped down onto her chest, I kept an eye on the weakly pulsating vein in her neck.

An overwhelming fear started to cloud my thoughts; what if I couldn't find food? Could sponsors send food? That is, the sponsors who have a fondness for cheating and foul play. So in fairness, I believed all the sponsors to be clammering to help me.

I shivered. Sweat poured down my face; physical exercise was never my strong point. Eating the cakes from the doting dewy-eyed girl in the District 12 bakery was more my division.

District 12

Sherlock saw the shell-shocked expression on his brothers face, he hadn't even attempted to resume his usual mask of indifference. Mycroft was hardly squeamish but remained impartial even in strategy games such as chess. He'd only lose a piece if it were crucial to the game play or to fool his opponent. Sherlock didn't expect foul play from him. He didn't actually know what to expect off his big brother.

" Poor Mycroft," he thought, " he hasn't a clue what to do. I gave him the scarf for a reason. He's finally grasped the poisonous element. Good." Leaning forward with his hands clasped in a steeple beneath his pointed chin he whispered,

" Now, do something with it. Fight."

Mycroft Holmes

Feeling the telltale gurgling in the pit of my stomach, I knew I had to act. Hunger was rife in the districts and even more so in the arena. I thought back to previous Hunger Games; food was always found near a water source.

There was no point waiting around. Slipping my arm beneath Molly's legs and my other around her chest I staggered to my feet. Plants need water. Animals need water. I need water so I should try to find an animal trail or skit.

_Gurgle! Rumble!_ I doubled over in pain very nearly dropping Molly. Clutching tightly at her body I kept her from rolling into a particularly spiteful looking clump of purple-tinged plants. The purple colouring suggested that it was poisonous or inedible at any rate. Taking a few painful steps away I sunk to the floor and spoke aloud,

" I feel like I haven't eaten in a week... It hurts like hell. Sherlock I hope it was worth drugging me, right?"

" Who's Sherlock?" I whipped my head around. The voice was deep, masculine and seemingly disembodied from a human body. Searching around the gloom of the forest I could see nothing.

" Why would you care?" I asked, guessing that the best way to isolate the source was to keep them talking, unaware of my real intention.

" I'm just vaguely curious. I'd like to learn something new before I die in this godforsaken place." A tribute. Male. That part was simple enough.

" He's my brother. Younger." I replied. Wrapping a 'protective' arm around Molly, I subtly removed the sabre from her limp hand. I moved the weapon out of sight and grasped it firmly; any offensive move by the invisible tribute would be countered. I would have dispatched him swiftly. One blow to the temple.

" Oh yeah? You say goodbye to him when you left?"

"Standard procedure isn't it? My arm was twisted."A telltale rustle sounded to my right and I flexed my arm.

" Whoa, relax. If I wanted to kill you and your girlfriend I would have done it by now. You've nothing to fear." In my mind palace I tried to run his voice through the tribute list I'd compiled by watching the Reapings.

" Oh really. I guess I'd feel a lot surer about that if you stopped this invisible act."

" I'm not stupid you know. I know you have a weapon, you'd be foolish to leave the cornucopia without one. Forgive me if I don't skip out of the bush with a flower headband waving a flag of truce."

" I understand."

" Really? Those kids back there were like animals. Never seen anything like it. How do I know that you're not one of them? If I saw correctly then you came up the tube in a horrible state, man you looked drunk! Or high. Maybe you didn't see them do what they did. But I'm a wary person now."

" Ok. Alright then." I leant forward, threw my sabre onto the floor and sat back expectantly. If what the tribute said was true, then I assumed he was trying to forge an alliance. No-one emerged from the forest. Confused, I tried to illustrate my actions and what they meant.

" You see? I've shown you-"

" You shown me one weapon I didn't even know you had." He sounded moderately surprised but relieved.

I sighed inwardly, he meant the scarf. He'd seen me drug Molly and my capacity for violence. Now I really understand his wariness in approaching me with the offer of an alliance. The last person to try it got drugged.

"Thanks for that," he continued, " Now take out the scarf."

Very slowly, I reached into my trouser pocket. Twirling my hand around several times in a circle to enwrap it onto my wrist, I pulled out the drugged scarf. Trying not to breathe, I tossed it away and a pale hand caught it before it hit the floor. My breath caught in my throat.

The hand retracted into the shadow, a figure stepped out into the meagre light filtering through the canopy. My eyes widened.

It was Greg Lestrade, the male tribute from district 4.

* * *

**I get the feeling there's going to be some serious Mystrade going on pretty soon. :)**


End file.
